


A Man of Great Consequence

by swordliliesandebony



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Flashbacks, Immortality, M/M, Minor Original Character(s), Past Relationship(s), Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-21
Updated: 2018-02-21
Packaged: 2019-03-22 03:22:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,381
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13755243
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/swordliliesandebony/pseuds/swordliliesandebony
Summary: A fill for the FF kinkmeme prompt: The aftermath of Episode Ignis alternate ending isn't as happy as it first seems. As time goes on more and more darkness gathers around Ignis. Strange things start to happen around him, and most importantly he no longer ages. Whether Noctis ends up having to kill Ignis, or Ignis has to live thousands of years without Noctis until a new Chosen King of Light is born is up to you. I just want to see the "good" ending turn out to be a bad ending





	A Man of Great Consequence

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first ever attempt at Ignoct, but it's a ship I'm considering diving into a bit more in the future.
> 
> If you don't follow me on tumblr, find me there @n0tempty

The men standing before him tear what remains of Ignis Scientia’s heart to shreds.

Not literally, not yet, but that will come soon enough. Well, perhaps not quite soon enough, but  _ soon _ all the same. The thought, that realization, curls the edge of his lip and straightens his back and just nearly draws a chuckle from his throat. Nearly, but not quite. His head turns, inclines toward the sea and toward the island set not far upon it, and it’s a meaningful glance even if this lot doesn’t realize it yet.

This lot. Hell, he feels like he could reach out and touch them and it would pull him back some thousand years; like it would pull him back to humanity. There’s a certain sensation, a roiling through belly and veins, when the scourge unsettles itself and courses and rebels against what better sense he’s managed to retain. It’s a feeling that reminds him what and where and  _ when  _ he is. All appearances to the contrary, he is not looking again on his friends. He is not face-to-face with his long gone lover. 

“Answer me. Who  _ are  _ you?” There lies a certain desperation in that voice that is as familiar to Ignis as the shape of his face and the cold burn of his eyes. He’s taken aback once more, though a few dozen centuries’ practice prevents him from betraying as much. 

“Do you know the story of the Chosen King?” Ignis’s head tilts toward the trio before him now, “Who returned light to a dark world and delivered his people from endless scourge?” He isn’t speaking past them, nor is he ignoring the new king’s question, though it will still be some time before the retinue realizes as much. 

“Everyone knows the story,” it is the man who is not Gladio who speaks, gruff and unrelenting as a hundred fathers before him. He places himself between Ignis and the king and crosses arms against his barrel chest, “it’s why we’re here. Kinda seems like you already know that, though—”

“—Clarus. Enough,” Ignis smiles properly at the new interruption. He can’t put a name to the man, but he can guess at the role. He can impose himself on the companion, dozens and dozens of lifetimes ago, and he can appreciate the hiss in his voice. 

“No matter. The Pilgrimage has been the rite of many before you. No sensitive information is being compromised,” except, of course, the sensitive information that Ignis is standing before a king; a Chosen King at that, though he questions whether that piece of information is one yet shared. Ignis has fought long to keep so many signs to that end subtle, but that fight— all of his fights, blessedly— are near to an end. An increase in daemon activity, nights that seem to roll in quicker than they’ve any right… he remembers it all too well. A burden he hates to place on another, but one he can only pray will at last end here. 

“Then why are you messing with us? We have a ship to catch, so if you don’t mind—”  Ignis steps aside when the young king—both unknown and so painfully familiar—moves to pass him down the pier. He holds the same short smirk while he weathers the glares of king and shield both and he attempts to display some surprise when the advisor lingers behind them. 

“The Chosen King fought alongside his friends to free Lucis from the Empire and then to free the world from the Betrayer King. The old prophecies said he would bring the dawn and end the scourge, but that didn’t happen,” there is a venom in that voice that Ignis is startled by just as much as he is intrigued. He has, it seems, underestimated at least this one of their number. He knows the words that will follow—not precisely, but in their spirit and at their core—and he closes his eyes against them.

“King Noctis was crossed by his closest friend and the world was damned again, doomed to relive the cycle of scourge and darkness, until the crystal would choose a new champion.  _ That’s  _ the story you want to hear, right?”

“Want is not precisely the word I would settle on,” Ignis sighs his response and he opens his eyes to find a pair burning into him.

“I know what my king might face. I’ll be standing by him until the end if he does.  _ I _ do not covet the ring or the crystal. I don’t need any history lesson to know I won’t repeat it. So tell me. Who  _ are  _ you?” 

Ignis ponders the words, he holds the stare, unblinking and unmoving. There won’t be any simple stepping aside here, though he would expect—would hope—for nothing else. He knows the spark in those eyes and some distant part of him, some part that still resembles humanity, aches over it.

“I am a man of great consequence. I fear you already know.”

 

* * *

 

 

_ “I’m pretty sure you’re allowed to drop the titles now,” Noctis smiled at his own tease and the expression turned Ignis to absolute liquid in his arms. He drew the other man closer, fingers kneading at the warmth hidden in the curve of his spine, running to splay across over-defined ribs and sinewy muscle and a body that hadn’t known such touch in a full decade. _

_ “I wouldn’t dare disrespect my king,” Ignis retorted, a smile hidden in the length of Noct’s hair, in the kisses he peppered over his forehead and against the line of his jaw. This moment was impossible, a fact that sat heavily in Ignis’s mind. Ten years of struggle against a destiny set for thousands before. Impossible, and still they managed their way here, to the royal chambers and to the long abandoned bed and to each other’s embrace after a near lifetime apart. _

_ “Your king,” Noctis repeated. He pulled back enough that he might press their foreheads together, share a spark in his eyes and a jolt at the brushing of their lips, “who’s life you happened to save. And who’s bed you happen to share. Gonna go ahead and decree you can save those ‘Your Majesty’s.”  _

_ “A fine reward for my service.” _

_ “I can probably come up with a finer one if you give me a few,” Noctis laughed again and he drew back, just by inches, just to sweep his eyes over Ignis. His fingers ran reverence along his jaw and down his throat. A frown crossed his face for a moment there though, forefingers circling against a pulse point in a sort of examination, “I didn’t even manage to leave a mark.” _

_ Ignis’s expression dropped there as well and his fingers moved to cover Noct’s, then to press over that same point. No extra sensitivity, no distant ache of a future bruise. Even the heat at his skin was no greater than what his body would produce by nature. He could all but still feel the attack of tongue and teeth at the point, could all but picture the dark mottling that had been created countless times in the past. Strange. Troubling, in a way that Ignis wasn’t keen yet to pinpoint.  _

_ “Perhaps you’ve lost your touch,” he opted to continue the line of teasing, even as something tugged at his mind, some warning he couldn’t place reason to. He won a chuckle from the words and the sensation of wet heat running again at that spot. _

_ “I’ll just have to try harder. Good thing I have all the time in the world.” _

 

* * *

 

 

“You’re following us.”

Ignis doesn’t think he’ll ever quite manage to get past the familiarity in that voice. The Amicitia line runs strong, he finds himself reflecting, in more way than one. A little shave along the sides, an opened shirt, and Ignis is sure there would be little distinguishing between this shield and the one he stood beside so long ago.

“Coincidence, I assure you,” he doesn’t hide the lie when he says it. He’s antagonizing, and the anger crossing the man’s face seems to please the black current in Ignis’s veins. He absolutely despises it, despises himself, though he thinks he hides it well. He hides it behind a sharp tongue and a short smirk, and eyes that look a thousand years past Clarus. Even the name amuses him, one tangentially tied—unknowingly, inadvertently—to that soon-repeated past. 

“Bullshit,” Ignis appreciates the brevity just as much as the barely-contained vitriol buried in it.  _ Good _ , he thinks  _ make it work for you _ . He recalls the tension between Gladio and Noctis, the difficulties that likewise arose. He recalls too, though, the way that it bolstered Gladio’s resolve, the way it focused him even if primarily out of spite. 

They stand looking at the water again, though from quite the opposite perspective to their last meeting. Ignis has always had a soft spot for Altissia, even if it scarcely resembles the one he briefly knew when he would have been standing here with Gladio himself rather than some shadow thereof. 

“You should be with your king,” Ignis points out, after some silence falls between them. The tension is thick and, in perfect honesty, it’s quite spoiling a rare moment of peace. He wants to reminisce. He wants to remind himself of things that haven’t been in so very long. Like this, all he can think of is the fact that this place—almost exactly this spot—is where he had made that decision, where he had destined himself to return in this way.

“He’s at the altar. There’s nothing I can do there,” the frustration isn’t directed at Ignis this time, present though it still is.

“I suppose not,” he agrees, shifts more of his weight against the railing before him, “you’re worried. You think he’ll be denied the blessing?”

“More worried that he won’t,” that response is properly startling, nearly knocks Ignis off balance. He turns his gaze, turns his face to a frown.

“Words ill-befitting a sworn shield.”

“Bullshit. Again. You know what’s happening here. Artis wasn’t wrong about you, was he?” The question isn’t a question. It makes Ignis snap more thoroughly to reality, to the present. To the fact that he really is staring down his end days. All of their end days if that trial at the altar doesn’t proceed as planned. 

“I get quite the impression he’s rarely wrong about anything.”

“Then why the hell aren’t you trying to stop us? If you’re really…  _ him _ , why don’t you fight?” The confusion, the frustration, it’s entirely understandable. Ignis doesn’t think it should make him smile, but damned if it doesn’t. He shakes his head and he turns his eyes back to the sea.

“Artis isn’t  _ wrong _ , but his perspective is… somewhat lacking. I could hardly blame him for it. There’s only one view from where he stands. It’s unfortunate, though. Dangerous, really,” Ignis shakes his head and he makes an absolutely dramatic show of sighing. That much is the truth and it’s one he fears they might all yet be damned by.

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“Never mind that. The important thing is that you stay your path. These are dangerous times, don’t you think?”

“Yeah, because of you,” Ignis laughs aloud at that accusation and he shakes his head once more.

“Unfortunately so. Don’t forget that.”

 

* * *

 

 

_ “How long did you know?” Ignis was nearly staggered back physically by the words, by the accusation beneath them. He should have expected nothing less, but it still hurts him, still kills him in every way but the one that it should—that it might, if he’s not careful. _

_ “I’ve had my suspicions, however—” _

_ “—No. No avoiding the question, Ignis. How long did you know what it was doing to you? From the very start?” it wasn’t simple rage in Noctis’s voice. If it was, perhaps this would have been easier. Perhaps Ignis could have stepped away and accepted his fate without the sudden sensation of his soul being rent from his body. It’s hurt, though. Betrayal. It’s a thousand little emotions, a million moments where Ignis could and should have stepped back. _

_ When did he know? _

_ It wasn’t an easy question to answer, whatever Noct implied. It had come in little signs, subtle warnings, vague sensations of unease and dread and, eventually, realization. It had come with bruises that didn’t form and injuries that closed on a dime. It had come with dark corruption flooding his eyes when he woke and pumping thick through his heart, heavier with each day. _

_ “I knew something was wrong for a while. As to what that was, I only came to understand in the past few weeks. I was searching out a way to confirm the suspicion.” _

_ “A while. How long is that, Ignis? How long did you stay with me while this was eating you? While the world was dying for it?” Ignis winced again and he let his head drop. His eyes stung, but the pain was somehow distant, too. Like he was grasping, gripping, trying to hurt more than hurting properly. Like he was losing—perhaps he had already lost—some part of himself to the corruption.    _

_ “It doesn’t matter how long. It changes nothing,” Ignis shot his response back sharp and deadly, with eyes narrowed and darkened, whether by that corruption or by his own emotion he couldn’t rightly say. Was there any difference now? If so, he was sure there wouldn’t be for long. Which meant he had to go, he had to leave, before it was no longer an option. Before he was nothing more than a shadow, bent on destruction. Bent on perpetrating the exact act he had been so willing to die to avoid. _

_ “Like hell! We could have already stopped this. We—” _

_ “—No, your majesty. We couldn’t have. And we won’t,” his voice remained harsh and he stepped back, stance defensive, ready to avoid any strike, “everything I did was to save you, to ensure that you had a life to return to. I fought ten years for you to have a place in the world you saved. The prophecy… I was wrong. I couldn’t stop it, I couldn’t change it. Not the way I thought. But if you think that after all this, I’ll still let you die…” _

_ Ignis saw the moment the realization hit Noctis. It widened his eyes and pressed him a step back. It drew sparks of light and a sword into his hand and for just a moment Ignis considered staying, allowing it to happen. It was the right thing to do, wasn’t it? He would still have won Noct those extra months in the end and they would have still saved the world for whatever generations would come. _

_ But his mind flashed back. It flashed to the warmth of Noctis in his arms and his heart fluttering between his ribs when they shared their smiles. It flashed to Noct in his teens, struggling to cope with a title he had never asked for, a destiny so weighty even without the knowledge of a hasty and necessary end. He considered the warmth of sun on both their shoulders, saw himself chasing memories with dozens of failed variations on a recipe, watched his body lying prone before the altar in Altissia. _

_ Perhaps it was that corruption, or maybe just the simple necessity of the situation, but Ignis moved faster than he knew he could and drove the butt of a dagger near the base of his skull. He caught him before he could fall limp and unconscious and he pressed his lips one final time to his forehead before he laid him down and fled for the sake of his king’s life. _

 

* * *

 

 

Ignis doesn’t have to wait long at the tomb. Perhaps it’s for the best. The place, to be perfectly honest, is horrible. Noctis would have hated to know that whatever remains of him is locked for eternity in such a place. Naturally, neither of them had a say in such arrangements. There were traditions dating back to the beginning of the line of Lucis and such things couldn’t be undone by one king’s distaste. Still, it made him absolutely  _ itch _ to be here. Or, perhaps, that was simply the act of waiting in and of itself. Only a few hours. Even a few days would have passed as nothing. Still, he’s relieved to see the royal retinue enter. 

“We’ve really gotta stop meeting like this,” the king—the one who Ignis still finds his breath taken by, if only over resemblance—makes his presence known with an air of amusement more than one of annoyance. It’s a surprising shift, one that Ignis can’t help but wonder over. It makes him uncomfortable, to be sure. This is, after all, a serious matter. The  _ most  _ serious matter there is. The flippancy does no favors to any of them.

“I was concerned you might be shirking your duties,” he levels his response with a similar levity, even if it’s one that Ignis absolutely detests. He doesn’t do so well to hide that fact, either. His eyes are dark, permanently so now, and stare beyond the king more than at him.

“You’re about a thousand years late on the loyal servant act,” any of that bemusement shifts away from the king’s voice, “more insult to injury here? Better back down if you don’t wanna die where you stand,” the words lower to a hiss. Ignis leaves his perch at the side of the Noctis’s tomb, slow and measured in his steps to the side. There are remarks tingling on his tongue, quickly bitten back while he allows the descendent to approach.

He’s not so much like Noctis, Ignis tells himself. He carries that chip on his shoulder as if it’s as large as the world itself. It’s obnoxious. Ignis doesn’t bother to consider whether or not Noct might have been the same, had he known the fate he would soon be staring down. He refuses to entertain the thought.

Instead, he watches the light that envelopes the young royal, right until that familiar sword is shooting its spectral blade through his heart. At that point, Ignis can’t help but look away. He watches the shield and the advisor again and he doesn’t miss the fact that neither of them seems quite able to look either. 

The threat of memory is thicker in the air than usual, so much that Ignis feels near choking on it. He feels near mortal with the sensation, so thick in his throat and heavy in his chest, and he despises that feeling now. It’s become darkness, through and through. Inside and out. There’s no moon hanging distant above the tomb, no sign of life beyond these three, beyond daemons lurking to meet them on their retreat.  

“Not much longer now,” Ignis nearly needs to shake himself from those threatening memories to speak. He’s not surprised by the derisive snort the king gives as response, nor the glare the two companions fix on him. 

“Just however long the crystal decides to keep me prisoner, right? A lot longer for humans than it is for you.”

“Ferus,” it’s the advisor—Artis, if Ignis recalls—who interrupts there, “leave him. We’re nearly home, and once the crystal grants its power, we can deal with him for good,” Ignis recognizes the care he’s taking with his words and he recognizes the strain carried in them, too. There’s an echo of emotion in his chest; pity, perhaps? He had spent a great deal of time himself with that knowledge of the road he was guiding his friend to. More than his friend, in Ignis’s case. He makes a point to ignore those thoughts.

“This is stupid. I could just finish him here, if he’s not gonna fight back.”

“No,” Ignis responds quickly, “I’m quite afraid you could not.” 

 

* * *

 

 

_ “You shouldn’t be here.” _

_ Ignis bit back a response, one about precisely how well he knew that fact. He didn’t say it, though. He only lowered his head and pressed his back flat against the stone wall he was lingering at. He could have been quicker, could have made his escape without being noticed. He thought he might even have been able to reshape and disguise himself, if he put an effort to it. Ardyn had harnessed the same power to do just that, hadn’t he? The idea made the parts of him still human—the parts torn so thoroughly to shreds by the gravity of the ceremony, the reality of the days leading up to it. _

_ His grand sacrifice, the one he made that would—almost certainly now—erase all of their previous efforts, had bought Noctis a grand total of twenty-three additional years. It had been long enough to wed, to produce an heir, to lead the country toward some semblance of recovery. But it had, in the grand scheme, been so painfully and brutally short. And, in the end, Ignis and his decision and the scourge that returned thanks to it, had killed him all the same. One mistake after another.  _

_ “I’m sorry,” Ignis said, and whatever part of him still existed that could mean it really did. Prompto looked a mess beside him. Maybe it was just the age catching up. There were heavy and dark bags beneath his eyes and a bloodshot quality to the violet blue. He had taken to wearing glasses and given up some time ago on working greying hair into a style. He looked like a different person. He looked old in a way that Ignis never would. It was eerie, as much a reminder as anything could be, as to exactly how much now differed between them. _

_ “You need to go. Gladio’s gonna flip if he sees you.” Despite any outward growth, there was something still so young, so familiar about Prompto. It took Ignis by surprise, though he made a point not to react, not to do so much as lift his head. He was right, after all. Ignis had no business here, he had no right to attend this final send off to the king.  _

_ “I understand. I only wanted—” _

_ “—kinda late for what you wanted, Iggy,” there was something in Prompto’s voice, in the tremble and the words and that familiar old name, that forced Ignis to look at him. It was difficult, painful, and something he immediately regretted. Prompto didn’t hold his gaze for long, but there was something in there, some emotion that wasn’t the simple lost of his best friend. Pity. It lit an unexpected ember of rage in his belly, something searing and uncomfortable and horribly present. _

_ “You’re right,” Ignis didn’t speak for a long few moments. He was looking over Prompto’s shoulder, at the procession of people, waiting their turn to approach a body laid before the throne. He could make out the blur of an outline. No detail. No chance to approach, either. Prompto was right. If he was caught by Gladio, there would be a scene. He would be making things worse, only to lay eyes one last time on someone who would want him here less than anyone else. _

_ “This is pretty fucked up,” Prompto went on, his arms crossed at his stomach now and his posture slumping while he joined Ignis to brace against that wall, “you could’ve come back at the end, couldn’t you? Just...let him finish you off, once we knew there wasn’t any hope…” not that it mattered now, of course. That part hung between them unspoken while Ignis mulled the words. Prompto was right, of course, but that didn’t make them any easier to swallow. _

_ “I thought there would be more time. I didn’t want to make another mistake.” _

_ “He was ready to die for it. You know that. He was ready, and he thought you would come back. Right up to the very end,” Prompto’s voice was thick and Ignis glanced over long enough to see the quick slide of tears, “would you just leave already? Don’t you have a world to go destroy?” _

_ Unfortunately, he did. _

 

 

* * *

 

 

Ignis thinks his decision toward self-imposed exile is a good one, but it does little to help the world around him. The anger has long since become unbearable. The rage against this world, against what it stole from him, is more than he knows how to contain. Noctis should never have died, not like that, with his body twisted and darkened by scourge. With a mercy ending his life before there was nothing human left. 

He wants that mercy, too.

Soon.

Not soon enough, though. Not before countless more have died, before the world has found itself falling to ruin again. Because he can’t control his anger, his rage, his scourge and the daemons born of it. Because he couldn’t stand aside and let his king die, and because he couldn’t face that fate even when there were decades to take the second chance on it. His cowardice had doomed generations, whether they realized fully or not. 

Artis’s arrival comes as a surprise only because he arrives unaccompanied. Ignis has lost track of the time between the trek to Noctis’s tomb and King Ferus walking to the crystal to accept his own fate. He’s not counted the days or weeks or months since he made his way to Angelgard. He’s done little other than surrender himself to his thoughts, to his memories, to isolation that he should have committed to long ago.

He thinks about the new king, trapped in the crystal. He thinks about his friends, left without him to forge a way through the darkness. Not the darkness that Ardyn bore on the world out of hatred. The darkness born from Ignis, from his love for Noctis, and what that was twisted into, what he let it become. No, not from his love. From his damnable selfishness. His inability to let go of that emotion, his inability to let go of  _ Noctis _ . The same inability that had him trailing the new chosen king, offering his twisted sort of assistance along the way. He really isn’t any different. The thought bothers him, or maybe it amuses him. Maybe it’s a little bit of both.

“I want the truth.”

Ignis considers the words for a long time before he speaks. He doesn’t know the man standing before him, not really. But he feels like he does. He feels like he’s looking at a mirror, one that stretches back a millennium; one that reflects directly on his own mistakes. He smirks and he huffs out a laugh and he shakes his head, all in quick succession. He doesn’t rise from his spot, back supported against jagged rock, little cuts and scratches forming and healing from one breath to the next. He only looks at the man for a moment. It’s all he can bear. 

“And what truth is that?” He humors Artis, though he’s fairly well convinced he knows the answer there. A mirror, perhaps, that reflects in both directions. A window. 

“I want to know what happened between you and King Noctis. I want to know why you’ve helped us… and why you aren’t fighting. That isn’t…” his voice trails and when Ignis glances up again he can see that he’s lost himself to thought over the next words. They’re difficult ones. A strange sort of pride washes over Ignis when he manages to speak them, “it doesn’t make sense. The story doesn’t add up.”

“Most things don’t make sense. You know what happened. What do you suppose I can tell you? What is it that you’re so convinced you don’t know?” Ignis wants to issue the words as a challenge, but he can’t muster up the strength for it. Perhaps he doesn’t really want to press the issue at all. Perhaps it would be cathartic to admit that the histories have it all wrong, that Ignis’s intention had never been to doom the world or to turn his back on Noctis. But what good does that truth do? Some part of Ignis is aware that, all those lifetimes ago, he would have been horrified by that idea.

“I don’t think you betrayed your king. I think something else happened. I need to know what.”

“You  _ need _ to know?” Ignis laughs properly at that idea, but Artis’s expression remains firm and fixed. His hands clench at his sides and he takes a step closer.

“I do. Because I think you cared for King Noctis and I think you made a mistake,” he pauses, falters, and something in his eyes catches to Ignis, something makes him pause and stare him down and feel, for a brief moment, proper  _ fear _ , “and I need to know if you did, because I cannot make the same one.”

 

* * *

 

 

_ “C’mon, Iggy. I thought you’d be happy,” Ignis didn’t so much as blink when Noctis took a seat beside him, legs dangling similarly over the dock’s edge. He continued to stare at the ocean, at the island some meters off—the legendary prison, fallen to nothing—and he tried his best to ignore the strange roil of emotion, “you were trying to figure it out forever. Mystery solved,” Noctis rattled on while he leaned his shoulder into Ignis’s. The edges of their hands pressed together and Ignis tugged his away, flesh to a hot stove. _

_ “I should have realized it earlier,” his voice was low and it was threatening to break. Ridiculous. He was being utterly ridiculous and he knew it all too well. He still couldn’t look at Noctis, even if he could feel that gaze on him. Final lingering rays of pleasantly warm sun, all mingled with a perfectly light seabreeze, did little to warm or comfort. _

_ “How? They don’t even have those berries in Lucis. There’s no way you could’ve ever guessed,” but Noctis’s tone had changed. He had become cautious with his words, apparently considering some guard between them. Contrary to that idea, though, his hand shifted to cover Ignis’s fully after that first rebuff. He leaned further inward, so that his head rested on Ignis’s shoulder, so his hair tickled against his throat and cheek. Ignis was frozen in place like that just for a moment, just for a heartbeat, before he detached himself entirely, put endless space between them with the shift of just a few inches. _

_ “That’s not what I meant.”   _

_ “Think I could get the Ignis-to-human translation here?” Noctis made an attempt at teasing with the words, but Ignis didn’t miss the dual undercurrents of confusion and frustration. A well-deserved reaction, even if one that made Ignis feel worse still. He didn’t speak immediately. He didn’t know how to. _

_ What was he meant to say? _

_ ‘I’m sorry, Highness. I’m afraid I’m terribly in love with you and it’s only occured to me now that the remainder of my life will be dedicated to watching you move on from me.’  _

_ Somehow, that didn’t strike Ignis as appropriate.  _

_ “We’ll be off to Altissia soon,” the words sound like the subject shifting, but they’re just the opposite really. Ignis had to believe Noct knew that. He attempted a glance in his direction and, as if on cue, Noctis was straightening himself up, hardening his face and focusing it to the water below. _

_ “Yeah, assuming Dino actually comes through, which—” _

_ “—and you’ll be married to Lady Lunafreya.” _

_ “That’s the plan,” Noctis grunted his response. He was, of course, more aware than any of them that the course of his life was changing. Any last remnants of childhood were being shrugged off with that ceremony. He had kept his complaints quiet, subdued, but Ignis hadn’t missed the way he avoided speaking on the matter and he hadn’t missed the way Noctis always tensed and quieted when it wasn’t possible to change the course of the conversation. _

_ “The recipe,” Ignis circled back, and he frowned at the way his chest felt so suddenly tight. He turned to look properly at Noct and he found himself caught there for a moment, breathless and locked eyes and perfectly still. If circumstances could only be shifted by a few degrees, it could be a perfect moment. It could be a happy one, romantic even. As it stood? “It’s a reminder, I suppose. Another thing I wanted to give you. And can’t.”  _

_ “Stop it. You’re still gonna be right there beside me,” Even as Noctis said those words though, Ignis could hear the strain in his voice, the emotion usually kept in check with far greater precision. The fact stung—no—stabbed at Ignis, made him turn his face away once more. They both knew the truth he was trying not to say. So why did he need to press on? _

_ “Our… indiscretions… however, will need to stop.” _

_ “So that’s how you see it? ‘Indiscretions’?” Noct’s voice went harsh. He might have stood, but Ignis caught his arm before he had the chance. It was a bad decision, he knew it the moment he reached out, but knowing that he should stop and actually managing to do so were two very different things. _

_ “No,” he whispered the admission, the truth, not that it did them any good, “of course not. But should others learn of the nature of our feelings—” _

_ “—I don’t remember you ever mentioning the nature of anything, Iggy. I’m pretty sure it’s not something to worry about,” that bitterness remained thick in Noctis’s words. Ignis sighed and, after a glance spared in any direction around them, he drew Noct close, an arm curled to the small of his back and his forehead pressing to Noct’s temple. _

_ “I love you, Noct. You know that. And you know that the rest of the world cannot.” _

_ “I don’t care about the rest of the world.”  _

_ “That,” Ignis sighed, “is precisely the problem.” _

 

 

* * *

 

 

It’s not often, Ignis thinks, that one faces down death with such an accepting resolve as he’s mustered for this moment. It’s not often either, though, that one is forced to wait centuries to find it. So it comes as a relief when King Ferus, the Second Chosen, emerges from his crystal slumber and seeks Ignis out in the remnants of that prison. It comes as a relief, too, when he stands before Ignis bolstered by the spirits of kings he has watched come and go; when that first threatening bite of cold steel aims between his ribs. No, not a threat. A promise. A mercy. One that he does not deserve. One that will save a world he’s seen destroyed twice over. __

“You weren’t who they said you were,” the words keep Ignis’s eyes focused on his soon-to-be slayer. Perhaps they shouldn’t come as any surprise at all. Was his knowledge filled out while he slept in the crystal, absorbing its power, waiting to put it to that final fatal use? More likely, Ignis suspects, Artis recounted their conversation before accompanying him here. The advisor and shield are nowhere to be seen, though Ignis is not foolish enough to think they are far off. It’s an idea that makes him smile, right along with those half-expected words.

“I’m a scourge. I’ve brought death and darkness to everything I touch. To a great many things I haven’t touched. I’m  _ exactly  _ what they said I am,” Ignis corrects him, if only by way of sidestepping the point. It goes unheeded, but that’s no surprise either. The resemblance to Noctis runs deeper than appearance, a fact that aches more than the first cut at his breast.

“You didn’t aim to steal the ring or the crystal. You didn’t even want the throne.”

“Intention has no bearing on outcome. You should see that better than anyone,” Ignis shifts closer by an inch or two. The sting at his skin has already passed, wound started and healed so simply. Ferus hasn’t gone for the kill yet—that will require the power of those spectral forms behind him, lighting their conversation, casting their silent judgment.

Ignis doesn’t dare search their hazy faces.

He doesn’t dare search for Noct. 

“I’m not standing down. I’m not afraid to die here. I’m not even angry any more.”

“That’s good,” Ignis speaks cautiously. Honesty would say that he wants this to end, that he’s ready to feel that final plunge and then, at long last, to feel nothing at all, “A good king requires that courage, to keep moving forward. What you’re doing for your people—for everyone—it’s a good thing. I encourage you not to falter.”

Those words, modified and fitted to a new king, to a new situation, still ring in a voice; they still echo through those final moments, where Ignis stands as their final keeper. He sucks in a deep breath and he holds it, his eyes olding with Ferus’s, narrowing and near-begging. 

“I offer you my pardon, Ignis Scientia. And I release you from that curse.”

Perhaps the words distract him from the pain of what comes next. Or perhaps his body is simply no longer capable of it, so turned by corruption, so far from anything more than resembling humanity. He can feel that warm ichor pouring from the wound when Ferus’s blade withdraws, can feel the distant echo of something that is pain when the next strike comes. The sensation of the ghostly weapons to follow builds slow. It’s a rolling agony, cold and gripping. It’s a weariness that washes from the back of his skull and down to his toes. Each successive blow turns him to ice, to ash, to a remnant, floating in a space that is no longer Angelgard. A place that is nowhere at all. He sees the living—perhaps no longer—king fade, flutter to a thousand pieces and vanish before him.

And in his stead, he sees Noctis. He sees the first Chosen King. Unchosen, unsuccessful by Ignis’s own folly. Shining and stepping close, with a face of stone that draws impossibly close to his when he drives that final sword into place; with a whisper, ethereal and breathless as Ignis’s vision fades that final time, as Ignis himself fades to nothing at all.

“I’m sorry. I love—”

Silence. 

Freedom.  


End file.
